There once was a chance which I did not take,
but take from me – it did – and deep enough
to fill my soul’s ravine with longing ache
and guilt to rival that of cheated love.
Your wishful hands brushed my skin to glowing,
a fresh and growing heat below, blushed rose
the flesh of my cheeks — my eager breath flowing —
this timid mind unwilling to expose
its deepest need. Biting my own taut lips,
choking on the impotence of my voice,
I imagine you, hard against my hips,
my words rising up, a willing, free choice.
Instead, I held my desire close to me,
robbing us both of its reticent beauty.
You know…I face the blank page (or screen) almost daily when I’m on a good writing streak. My mind doesn’t close. I bite my lip in consternation and concentration. My forehead wrinkles with focus, and my eyes raise to the ceiling or look down in various patterns searching for the right words.
But, when another person is set before me, my throat closes up as if I were having an allergic reaction to my own thoughts, the words held down like dangerous bile that might set my tongue on fire.
Why, oh, why can’t I say what is in my head? When it comes it me? When the right person is there to hear it and wants to hear it and needs to hear it? When the words are tight around the tip of my tongue, begging to escape…to hear themselves out loud.
So often, I can see it in his face, the need to hear me say something as simple as “I want you” or “I want you to fuck me.” I know he wishes I would tell him my darkest pleasures, and speak of them openly…”I like it when you smack my ass…,” “I like it when you bend me over and drip the cold, slippery lube onto my asshole…the anticipation…the surprise…the directness…it turns me on and I open up like a flower to the morning sun, taking you in slowly and hungrily….”
Why can I write that…but when he looks at me and asks me to tell him what I want, I glance away nervously and say, “I don’t know…”?
He loves me more than any man on the planet and accepts me for who I am — occasional instability, insecurity, and incessant imperfections included. And I can’t even open my mouth. It’s a special kind of impotence. Ironic even…that my fingers can fashion what my mind wants to say, but my lips can’t form the words.
So many times, I’ve said nothing, when my mind was swimming. So many times, I’ve said nothing, when his gaze was unwavering. So many times, I’ve simply walked away, or rolled over in the darkness to the safety of silence, disappointed in my own inability to speak.